“Post-prophetic stress syndrome. Just lie still. It’ll pass.”

“You sure?”

He made a face. “Hello? God of prophecy, remember?”

“About that,” I said. “Why do you need an Oracle? Why don’t you dole out your own prophecies?”

He looked skyward and rendered his reply in haiku:

“I’m a free spirit

Adrift in sunshine and song.

Office hours bore me.”

 

I thought about questioning whether hours was one syllable or two. But I let it slide, figuring he knew, seeing as he’s the god of poetry.

Then I blurted out another question. “Why can’t the Oracle have a boyfriend?”

I’m not sure why I asked. I wasn’t interested in anyone. (Well, not anymore, anyway.) Guess I was just curious.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he broke off a leaf from a nearby laurel bough and crushed it between his finger and thumb. The air filled with its pungent aroma.

“Love can cloud the mind,” he said at last. “An Oracle with an obstructed view is of no use.” His voice was sorrowful, and I remembered that he had once been madly in love with a nymph named Daphne who turned into a laurel tree to escape his amorous attentions. I guess he knew about clouded minds.

I changed the subject. “Why do prophecies have to be so confusing? I mean, how come I can’t just say straight up what’s going to happen?”

He heaved a sigh, as if he’d answered the same question a million times before (which, given that he’s immortal, maybe he had). “That would be as much fun as a two-piece jigsaw puzzle. Mystery, intrigue, hints of danger, unusual rhymes—those are what makes a memorable prophecy! Take this one, for instance:

“Pinochle and Ping-Pong, ambrosia squares and nectar,

An attic with an Oracle, a disembodied leopard,

A centaur in a wheelchair, a wine dude, serving time,

This omphalus of Half-Blood will welcome offspring half-divine.”

 

Full disclosure: I had to look up omphalus. You hit the first syllable, by the way, like you would in emphasis. The word means navel, as in the center point of something, not your belly button, though I suppose you could use it that way to impress your friends. I might pierce my omphalus when I’m older. Or mock your enemies. You really don’t know where your omphalus is? Ha-ha!

But such navel contemplation came later. At that moment, Apollo was looking at me expectantly.

“Right,” I said. “The prophecy describes Chiron, Dionysus, and the Big House, obviously.”

“Obvious to you, sure,” Apollo agreed. “But what if I told you that little prophetic nugget was delivered more than a thousand years ago?”

I had a sudden vision of people back then hearing the words pinochle, Ping-Pong, and dude. Gods only knew what they thought they meant. Food? Weapons? Clothing? They wouldn’t have had a clue. And what did Chiron make of the bit about the centaur in a wheelchair?

The truth struck me like a cold, wet cloth to the face. Unless they were immortal, the people who heard that prophecy died without understanding what it meant. They may have gone crazy or even perished on quests attempting to decipher its meaning.

The thought made me really sad, then super-anxious about prophecies I might utter someday. “Apollo,” I whispered, “will my words send people on hopeless quests?”

“Oh, Rachel.” Apollo patted my hand comfortingly. “Yes.”

“Well, that’s just peachy.” I didn’t mean to sound bitter, but honestly, I was starting to have significant second thoughts about the whole Oracle gig.

Apollo stood up then. “You need sleep,” he said. “But before I go, I have something for you.” He pointed at the ceiling. A beam of golden light issued from his fingertip. A moment later, a present clumsily wrapped in gold foil paper thudded next to me. (I found out later that the beam of light almost gave the Stoll brothers heart attacks.) “Open it.”

Inside was a rickety-looking three-legged stool. “Um…thanks?” I said.

“It’s the original,” he told me. “From Delphi. Well, from the Big House attic, more recently, where it languished underneath the posterior of your predecessor for far too long.”

Understanding dawned on me. “This is the tripod of Delphi. The one the first Oracle sat on thousands of years ago. You’re giving it to me?”

“I could have let you try stealing it, I suppose,” Apollo said, scratching his head, “but that didn’t go so well for Heracles when he tried it. He was punished with a year of women’s work for his crime.”

I cocked an eyebrow. “Excuse me? Women’s work?”

Apollo waved dismissively. “Housework, chores, whatever. All that mattered was that for a blowhard like Heracles, washing dishes and sweeping floors was a well-deserved punch in the ego.” He patted the stool lovingly. “The butts of many powerful women have rested here.”

“I’m honored to be adding my derriere to the list.” As the words came out of my mouth, I realized I meant it. For good or bad, I was the new Oracle of Delphi. I celebrated the momentous occasion by throwing up again.

Things have been a little quiet around my cave of late (unless you count my recent mural-eradicating, sofa-flipping, curtain-shredding tantrum, which I sincerely hope you won’t). For some reason, the pilot light of prophecy has gone out, and Apollo hasn’t been able to reignite it.

But don’t worry. I predict I’ll be spouting green smoke and confusion again by the time you’re ready for a quest. And that will be soon, I have a feeling….

Tired of living with mortals who smell of BO, cigars, and garlic? Then step through the border and leave the stench behind! Powered by the strongest Mist and guaranteed to repel even the most determined monsters* and nosiest mortals, this invisible barrier surrounds Camp Half-Blood with the best demigod protection magic can conjure. And that’s not all! As an added bonus, inside the borders of camp, you’ll be enveloped in delightful springtime weather all year round. So if you’re ready to say good-bye to stink, slush, and certain death, come through the border today!

Created by Zeus himself to embody the life essence of his dying daughter, Thalia Grace, this storied tree marks the easternmost boundary of Camp Half-Blood. The pine flourished for five years, strengthening the border with its magic. Then Luke Castellan, foul minion of Kronos, poisoned it with elder python venom. The valiant tree clung to life until the Golden Fleece, that ancient mystical blanket shorn from a flying ram, restored its vigor. The Fleece’s curative powers even released Thalia from her piney imprisonment—sap-free! Today the Golden Fleece and the Athena Parthenos energize the camp’s protective barriers, but the pine tree remains as a tribute to Thalia Grace’s bravery. It also smells really nice.

THALIA: Leo, did you get this stupid recording device working yet? What? I can’t hear you! What? Gods, and people wonder why I joined Artem—Oh. Hi, everyone. Apparently, I’d muted Leo.

LEO: You’d be surprised how often people do that to me.

THALIA: Would I? So, we’re talking with Sally Jackson, mother of Percy, and Frederick Chase, father of Annabeth, via a four-way videoconference setup that Leo vows will work just fine.